


That Home By and By

by quantumoddity



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childbirth, Fatherhood, Fjord as a dad just, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth, KILLS ME, M/M, Not explicit but implied, Trans Caduceus Clay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25536385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumoddity/pseuds/quantumoddity
Summary: Every Fjorclay fic for the next thousand years is going to have this song for a title, huh?Fjord thinks back in the day their children were born and how much he's changed since then
Relationships: Caduceus Clay/Fjord
Comments: 6
Kudos: 103





	That Home By and By

Fjord was glad that there were some things he hadn’t lost. 

A lot of things were poisoned for him now, things that he’d used to love, that had once seemed as much a part of him as his bones and ligaments. Taking them out and replacing them with something new had been a long, painful business but there were things he hadn’t lost. 

The whisper of the shore on the stones still calmed him, in its regularity and gentleness like the comforting breath of a person you loved beside you in your bed at night. The tang of salt and smell drying seaweed, just on the verge of being something unpleasant but it was familiar. The many blues and greys and greens, half a hundred shades of so few colours, that could be seen in every turn of the waves. A rough kind of beauty, a natural kind that could be cold and raw if it wasn’t yours. Fjord hadn’t lost any of that, it still slowed his heartbeat and relaxed his muscles and brought a soft smile to his face as he walked along the shoreline. 

And he’d gained something as well. 

His son’s footsteps weren’t as sure as his own, he’d only learned to walk very recently and the mix of smooth pebbles and sand were proving difficult. But he still insisted on walking by himself. If his sisters were doing it, Fern had to do it too. 

Up to a point. If Fjord looked back along the beach, he could see their daughters, gambolling through the surf, splashing and shrieking with laughter as they came up after each wave knocked them back. Their grey green fur was soaked and plastered to their too long limbs, their tufts of hair- pink for Hazel and black for Willow- were spiked up and already stiff with salt. Caduceus was amongst their chaos, up to his knees in water, never letting either girl go beyond the reach of his long arms, chuckling at how pleased they were to be tumbled back and rolled off their feet by the water. 

Fern had joined in at first, hesitantly paddling up to his ankles, gripping his tail tightly in the hand that wasn’t latched onto Caduceus’ trousers. But he’d sobbed when the first wave had come up higher than his middle and had scampered on all fours back to Fjord, hiding under his arm. 

Fjord hated seeing his youngest upset and frightened, of course he did, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel good to be the one he ran to for comfort and protection. 

So he’d wrapped Fern up in one of his hoodies, big enough to be a dress on him, coming down to skate his shins and asked if he wanted to go for a walk instead, just the two of them. Those were the magic words for Fern, drying up his damp eyes and making him smile wide enough that Fjord could see his budding tusks poking over his lip. 

So now he was walking along the shore, just the two of them, pausing every so often so Fern could catch up, tail wobbling behind him to help him keep his balance. 

“You’re doing good, little man,” he smiled, knowing he didn’t need to raise his voice over the surf, Fern’s enormous ears would hear him. 

Fern smiled back, the hood pulled up so his large golden eyes seemed to peer out at him. He’d laden the pocket of the hoodie with stones that had taken his fancy for one reason or another and was now wobbling a little too much for Fjord’s liking. So he held out a hand for him to grip, letting him steady himself, draw himself up to his full, not very considerable height so the top of his head only just brushed Fjord’s hip. 

“Tell me a story, papa,” he hummed, leaning into him as they walked on. 

Fjord had seen that coming. Fern loved a story, any story about his papa, his days on the Tide’s Breath or travelling the coasts, his days as a mercenary. A lot of them needed to be sanitized for his toddler, a lot of editing that needed doing before the words came out of his mouth but the way Fern’s eyes would shine, like his papa was a hero in every single one, mouthing along to the bits he knew best. It made everything that had happened to him feel worth it, like it really could all be a story that had been leading to something good. 

And there was one story that was his favourite. 

“Which story do you want, little man?” Fjord asked, even though he already knew the answer. 

He pretended to consider, tilting his head and humming before grinning wide and bouncing on the balls of his feet, “I want the story where papa saved me!” 

Fjord chuckled, running his thumb along his little knuckles, “You really like that one, don’t you?” 

“Yes! It’s my favourite!”

“Well, if it’s your favourite…” Fjord hummed, as if he’d had no idea, as if it was news to him, “So. It starts when your daddy and I were up at the Grove with your nana and grandpa and all your aunties and your uncle…”

“And I wasn’t born yet, was I?” Fern added, one hand sunk in his pocket, making the stones clatter. 

“No,” Fjord nodded, “You were still curled up real small in your daddy-”

“But I was the smallest, right?” Fern cheeped, “ Cos mean sisters were sitting on me and squishing me…”

“Little man, who's telling this story, me or you?” Fjord arched an eyebrow fondly.

Fern giggled, hiding his face against Fjord’s leg, “You, daddy…”

He would tell the story, Fjord thought, as his son stooped to pick up another pebble that shone with a smooth, polished blueness. 

But it would always go a little differently in his head. 

He had been playing with his braid anxiously all morning. Caduceus had woven it into the longer part of his hair on their first night sharing the cramped bedroom he’d slept in for the first fifty years of his life, crammed into the teenage firbolg sized bed that really wasn’t meant to accommodate a full sized Caduceus, his half orc husband and their three unborn children. 

Fjord knew the braids in a firbolg’s hair had deep significance, showing what stage of their life they were in through the complex weaves of hair and the patterns shaved into the shorter fur around them. A firblog had only to look at Caduceus’ to know he followed Melora, that he came from the Blooming Grove, that he was wed and everywhere he’d travelled. There were braids for every birthday, for the day you left home, for your wedding day. And there was a braid awaiting the arrival of a child. 

Caduceus had told him, in soft voices that wouldn’t carry and wake his family in the rooms perilously close to their own, that ‘mother’ and ‘father’ were common words. Firbolgs only needed one,  _ byrd.  _ Genderless and no limit to how many one person could have, it simply meant the person who had given them life and had promised to protect, love and guard the baby for the rest of their life. It was a title that was earned, rather than being a simple fact of biology. 

“So you have as much a right to this as I do,” Caduceus had murmured, as he’d woven the braid into his black hair, fixing it with a bead made of sea glass, a gift he’d been waiting until their arrival to give him, “That’s what you are to them.”

And in that moment, every doubt that had gnawed at Fjord since Caduceus had pulled him into the back room of their cafe and asked in a quivering voice if they could go to the pharmacy on the way home, it was as if it had never been there. All the voices that told him he wasn’t worthy of this, that life had made a mistake in letting him have this kind of joy, they stopped for the first time in eight months. He’d surged into a kiss, holding Caduceus’ stomach between them and telling himself he could do this. 

And now, with everything falling apart and those voices chattering so loud he barely kept both feet on the ground, Fjord held onto his braid and tried to remember when he’d believed it. 

Something was very wrong. Even he, who was going off whatever knowledge he’d been able to glean from websites and had been gladly deferring to Constance the whole time, could sense it. It was in the anxious, set shoulders of the other Clay’s sharing the clearing with them, the way Calliope was pacing, how strained Corrin’s prayers had become, how tightly Clarabelle clutched the first two babies, tiny, perfect little girls Fjord already knew he would take apart the world for. Cad’s moans grew tight and cracked at the edges, the composure and focus he’d managed to maintain flaking away gradually and his grip on Fjord’s forearms becoming painfully tight. He was terrified, Fjord could see it, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it but share the sacred pool where every Clay since the grove was founded had been born and watch as it’s crystal waters began to turn accusingly red. 

And when the tension finally broke, there was only a crushing silence. Not the rustling of the leaves in the winter air, not the ringing of Cad’s last cry, not the undergrowth moving. The grove held its breath, waiting, and received no reply. 

All that came was Constance’s voice, soft and heavy, the hand that wasn’t holding the source of the terrible silence reaching to touch Caduceus’ face, “I’m so sorry, sweet one. It isn’t your fault, it just happens sometimes when there’s many…”

Caduceus pulled away, from her hand and out of Fjord’s arms, the first time in hours they hadn’t been touching. Water broke over the lip of the hot spring and soaked into the grass around them, blood and all steaming in the cold bite of winter air. The forest around them seemed to sigh, like it was in mourning too, some of the sunlight going out of the clearing. Sounding far away, Clarabelle started to cry and Colton cursed. And Caduceus, his shoulders heaved like he was still in labour, like his body thought if he kept going there would be something he could do to stop this. Sobs were rising in his chest, the heavy, broken kind that seemed like they would never stop. 

The only thing that managed to tear it’s way out of his throat ahead of the tears was a rasping, shattering whisper, “Why...why would she _ do _ this?” 

Fjord didn’t have to ask who his husband meant. 

Inside, he seemed to split into several versions of himself, pulling in different directions. One strained towards Caduceus, to hold him and give him comfort he was in no state to accept. One lurched towards his daughters, now crying fitfully in their aunt’s arms as if they knew they should be three. One wanted to lash out in fury, at who he couldn’t have said. One just wanted to run, to flee and leave it all behind. 

And one just stood and whispered bitterly,  _ it’s your fault. Already, not even a second old, and you’ve failed. Why did you think you could do this? _

Fjord felt oddly frozen, suspended for a moment, caught between all these versions of himself, unable to feel anything. 

And then, a memory. A lashing storm, one of a hundred the Tide’s Breath had sailed through. But that time, for no reason other than simple bad luck borne of a worn robe or just the wrong balance or a shift in the wind, a mate had gone overboard.  _ Lost  _ had been the word immediately passed among the crew, as soon as they’d disappeared because how could it be anything else? But Vandran, his old captain, had said otherwise. He’d leapt over the side, snatched them from the grip of the rolling waves and heaved them back onto the rain soaked boards after nearly ten minutes of heart stopping waiting. And even then, when their skin had been pale and still and lifeless, Vandran had pounded on their chest, refusing to give up. Fjord remembered Sabian saying it was useless, they were beyond help, but Vandran had kept up that steady rhythm and then, in defiance of all the gods, they had sat up, heaved up what looked like half the ocean and taken a breath. 

So much of Vandran that Fjord had worn like armour, he’d had to discard. Bits that were false and sour, bits that hurt more than they helped. But that was one thing his old captain gave him that he’d kept a hold of, the thing he’d realised standing on the bucking deck and watching colour come back into a face that had seemed dead. 

To never give up on someone, not while there was still a chance. 

In the present, in the middle of the grieving forest, Fjord snapped back into himself and surged upwards, water running down his body. 

“Give them to me,” he said, voice tight and urgent, “Please, give them to me. Let me try.”

Constance could have argued, she could have told him in the same, sad tone that there wasn’t anything he could do. But her eyes, the colour of lavender in the winter, changed and she handed the baby to him. 

Not his whole hand, not like Vandran had done. The baby was tiny, smaller even than their sisters, and looked even smaller in their stillness. Just his fingers, pressed to their breastbone, once, twice, three times, on and on in a regular pattern, keeping count in his curiously still mind. Fjord could smell water, not the earthy smell of the natural springs or the melting snow, but the sharp bite of salt water and he could hear the waves as blood rushed through his ears. 

Behind him, through his sobs, Caduceus was begging in a faraway voice, “Please, Fjord, please,  _ please…”  _

Caduceus had put everything into this up until now, aweing Fjord more every day for nine months. But this, this he could do for him. And he was not going to fail him. 

When his mental count reached thirty, he bent and exhaled air into those tiny lungs, two heaving breaths to give them what they couldn’t take in themselves. Then more compressions, counting again, thirty to two breaths. The only sound was Caduceus’ high, thin pleading, and the sea that only Fjord could hear. 

And the, finally, a small, spluttering cry, a new voice in the Grove. 

Fjord laughed, delight rushing up to fill the vacuum inside him that had allowed him to work without falling apart. His chest felt like it might burst as he lifted the baby to his chest, and held them close, just in case anything else tried to ruin this moment. 

Caduceus had burst into fresh tears of pure relief, rising up out of the water to throw his arms around them, trying to thank him but unable to get the words out. Still grinning because if he didn’t he’d break too, Fjord kissed his cheek and made gentle, soothing noises, both to his husband and to the baby. Their son.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, holding them both in the circle of his arms, “It’s all okay, we’re all here. We all made it.”

Because they didn’t pull away from each other for a while, because they just couldn’t bring themselves to, they didn’t see the flowers- the perfect ring of bright, white flowers that had sprung up out of nowhere around the edge of the pool, filling the air with their scent. 

“Because you saved me, right papa?” Fern beamed, blinking up at him in adoration, “You saved me so the Wildmother sent the flowers as a present.” 

There were a few things Fjord left out of the story when he told it to Fern, he clipped away a lot of the fear and downplayed it as much as he could but his favourite part was the flowers. 

“She was welcoming you three,” Fjord nodded, “Because she knew you were special.”

“ _ And  _ because my papa saved me,” Fern insisted, tugging on his hand, “Because he’s a hero.” 

Fjord’s throat felt like it was tightening as he bent and swept Fern into his arms, pebbles in his pocket rattling. He covered his little grey green cheeks in kisses, making him giggle and writhe, clinging to his shirt so he didn’t fall, not that Fjord would ever drop him. 

“I don’t much care about being  _ a _ hero,” he admitted, as his son’s tail buffeted him playfully, “I only care about being  _ your _ hero.” 

Fern giggled, reaching up to pat at his face, “Love you papa.”

Fjord smiled, swaying with his son bundled in his arms, listening to his daughters and husband laughing just behind them, safe and well. 

It had been difficult, getting to where he was, building this new version of himself. 

But he’d gained far more than he’d ever lost. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving a comment, it really makes writing enjoyable!


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